


The Logic of Emotion

by Shadows_echoes



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Am I doing this right?, Bad Jokes, Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, Hank's excessive drinking, Pining, Slow Burn, Trust Issues, a good bit of angst, ao3 isn't my usual platform, is anyone still in this fandom?, my poor bbs are touchstarved
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-25
Updated: 2018-11-30
Packaged: 2019-08-29 01:46:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,130
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16734708
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shadows_echoes/pseuds/Shadows_echoes
Summary: Connor’s just trying to complete his mission but he keeps running into the emotional roadblocks of those around him. You’ve been assigned to the deviancy investigation along with him and Hank, but you’re starting to ask questions no one seems interested in listening to. The investigation becomes more difficult for everyone involved as it progresses, and for vastly different reasons.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is definitely a slowish-burn. As such, the storyline of the game is stretched out a bit to accommodate more scenes and character growth. Some scenes do borrow dialogue from the game but I wouldn't really call this a scene-for-scene reader-insert story.  
> Enjoy!

You were not sure why it surprised you. Not sure why, amidst the blood rushing past your ear, the cement sharply digging into your clinging fingers, and the lack of any immediate ground below, you felt betrayed down to your very core.

It was odd how an action as simple as turning away could cut you so deeply.

The mental recoil wasn’t really a conscious thought, more of a feeling -all you had time for at the moment-, but you beat it back regardless. Something between a grunt and a strangled cry escapes your lips as you begin to pull yourself up onto the ledge. 

Then, suddenly, strong weathered hands are wrapping around your arms and hauling you the rest of the way up and away from the edge of the roof.

It’s only once you are again standing upright on sweet, sweet solid ground that you realize Hank’s been calling your name, that his hand is still clamped protectively over your shoulder.

“I’m fine. I’m fine,” you mechanically assure as you attempt to get your rapid breathing under control. That is, to get your heart out of your throat. 

Hank opens his mouth, most likely protest, but you don’t give him the chance to do so. You simply move. All you can do is hope that running covers up the waver in your steps and the shaking of your hands as you jog towards the edge of an adjacent building, towards the pair of androids that stand there. The deviant, Rupert, was standing with his back to the edge and looking for all the world as fearful at the idea of falling as you had been not moments before. It was doubtful the expression was missed by Cyberlife’s newest and brightest detective prototype which made Connor’s unperturbed expression significantly more unsettling.

As you jogged up to the pair, Hank at your heels, you heard Connor telling the deviant that he would be sent back to Cyberlife for deactivation. Coming to a quick stop just short of standing between them, your eyes flicked from the utter detachment on Connor’s face to the terrified one on Rupert’s- an expression he should not technically be capable of having. Or feeling.

There was a nasty tug somewhere in your chest.

Hank had no qualms about coming to a halt between the three of you.

“Don’t you fucking move,” Hank orders, panting, as he jams a finger into the air in front of Rupert’s face. His hard eyes linger on the suspect for only a moment, however, waiting for a retaliation that would not come, before turning around in one swift motion and backhanding Connor across the face.

Androids do not register pain, you know that. But from the sound and the amount of head-snapping alone, you guessed it would have hurt like hell had Connor been capable of feeling anything at all. The android just straightens up, however, his face remaining blank even as Hank steps right into it. 

“You bastard!” Hank shouts. “You saw Y/N was going to fall and you’d rather let her die than fail your fucking mission!”

Unwarranted violencewas never something you agreed with, staying silent at the sight of it -even if it was only directed towards a machine- you were equally as disapproving of. There were better ways to release frustration than through violence, and better ways to make a point than through the infliction of pain or intimidation. However, as the crisp memory of recent events forces its way to the forefront of your mind -had it ever left?-, your parted lips and gaping mouth is quick to form a hard, silent line.

After Rupert had jumped down from the ceiling of an abandoned, pigeon-infested apartment, you all gave chase. Connor was the fastest out of the three of you, but you had found a shortcut. You managed to catch up and cut off the suspect. For your efforts, you had been thrown off the side of the building before you could even react to being pushed. As panicked and busy clinging onto concrete for dear life as you had been, you hadn’t seen Rupert resume his escape.

But you had seen Connor.

You saw him pause.

You saw him  _consider_ the situation in a fraction of a second that felt like  _eons_ , glancing between you, dangling over the street so far below, and the escaping deviant.

And then you saw him leave you there.

“I had to make a choice,” Connor replies smoothly, coming to his own defense. “It seemed to me-”

“What are we to you?” Hank yells, nearly glaring holes into Connor’s synthetic skin. “A statistic? A ‘zero,’ a ‘one’ in your fucking program? Huh? Is that how you see humans, you bastard?! _”_

“I understand you’re upset,” Connor replies patiently. “Perhaps I didn’t assess the-”

“Fuck you and your fucking assessment!” 

Hank’s outbursts do not seem to be helping release any of his anger. In fact, the absolute lack of anything  _remotely_ close to guilt or remorse or regret -or any emotional response  _whatsoever_ \- only seems to spur Hank on. It seems you would be getting involved after all.

“Hank,” you call, “he only did what he was programmed to.” 

The words sound bitter even to your own ears but instead of deescalating the situation as you’d hoped they would, Hank merely switches targets. He turns, eyeing you as though you had lost your goddamn mind.

Who knows? Maybe you had.

“So that makes it fucking okay?! You’re okay with what this plastic prick just did to you?” he exclaims, his expression soaked in disbelief.

_No_.

No, you were not okay with it at all. You hated what just happened. All you wanted to do was go home, take a long, long shower, and try to forget about it. You had been witness to flashes of Connor’s cold, robotic self, and instances of his alarming aggression and simulated anger. Despite that, you had grown to like Connor,  _“the android sent by Cyberlife”_  to help you and Lieutenant Anderson with your investigation into android deviancy. But as much as you respected him and other androids… A tiny sliver of your pleasant, friendly feelings hardened into something eerily close to disdain the moment he left you to die.

You sighed.

You stood beside two AI’s, one that was content to let you die so long as it furthered his mission, and the other running,  _fearing,_ for his life, simply wanting to live as something other than a slave. Why the latter was considered a deviant meant for deactivation when he seemed all the more human was a mystery to you. Maybe it was because of some shared self-loathing on part of the whole human race, or privilege. Or maybe somewhere along the road to creating near-perfect AIs, everyone had lost what fragments of humanity they still clung to. 

In lieu of providing Hank an actual answer, you simply walk behind Rupert as you pull out a set of handcuffs, a deep frown etched on your face. Though he  _initially_ ran, Rupert stands eerily still as you slipped the cuffs around his wrists. Though he did, literally, just shove you off a building, there is an illogical cord of unease in your gut about your own actions, something imploring you to look critically at what you’re doing. To  _see._

You try not to think about it.

“Why are you doing this?” Rupert pleads, something close to betrayal in his voice as he stares down Connor. “You’re one of us!”

“Shut up,” Hank growls, seemingly less pleased with the current situation than even you are.

Rupert doesn’t heed the warning. “You’re helping humans but you’re just their slave!”

“I said shut up!” Hank reiterates, knocking Rupert upside the head.

Logically, you knew you shouldn’t care, and in a way you don’t; all you really want is for this day to be over. But Hank’s actions snap something inside of you and you shoot him a death glare.

He gets the message. He grumbles, shaking his head at the low warning, the reprimand, but he does not try it again. Instead, he roughly takes Rupert by the arm and leads him away. With Connor flanking Rupert’s other side and you taking up the rear, that stupid gut feeling of  _wrongness_  is all the more present.

You don’t understand the feeling, don’t really want to, but you can’t help but wonder what the hell you’re doing. Rupert had not done anything illegal save for running away from his  _owner._ And then resisting arrest… And knocking you off the edge of the building…

The four of you make it nearly as many steps before the deviant says something too quiet for you to hear before ripping free of the hands that hold him and barreling towards you- past you-

Right off the edge of the roof.

-

“Detective Y/L/N, it has come to my attention that perhaps there was an error in my judgment when dealing with our latest deviant.”

“Really?” you ask dryly, not bothering to take your eyes off the screen in front of you to glance at the android now standing beside your desk.

“Yes,” Connor informs matter-of-factly. “It has been thirty-five hours and forty-seven minutes since I chose to chase the deviant instead of assisting you, and Lieutenant Anderson continues to demonstrate high levels of aggression towards me. During this time, you have also been… less easy to work with-” Connor carefully describes as you arch a dangerously challenging eyebrow at him “-than you have been previously.”

“ _Less easy to work with” my ass,_ you scoff inside your head.

You had kept working,  _productively_ , with someone who had basically left you for dead, and hadn’t complained about it  _once_. Not a single word to the captain about reassignment or deactivation. Not a single word to Connor himself or to your friends. Not even a single complaint to Hank -though he wascomplaining enough for the both of you-. You thought you deserved a fucking promotion, a medal at the very least!

Sure, you have been colder with Connor, shorter, but you were nowhere  _near_ rude. Hell, your attitude towards Connor was still better than Hank’s, or the general population’s, on any given day.

Connor had since explained himself, stating that your chances of survival were high enough that he thought it more prudent to chase after the deviant. Obviously, you still didn’t like what he had done, but you should have known his programming prioritized mission completion over human life. Maybe you had just expected too much from him in the beginning, foolishly assumed he was more human than he is.

Connor wasn’t the only one to have come to a conclusion over the last day or two, however. You had concluded that there may have been an error in your judgment as well. About Rupert. About cuffing him. About needing to catch him in the first place…

“That is a very astute observation, Connor,” you deadpan, now rubbing your temples with your middle finger and thumb.

“I’m sorry for what happened, Detective,” Connor says, not sounding overly apologetic. “But if these behaviors continue, I’m worried it may cause significant delays in our investigation.”

So much for that asskissing protocol Hank had been laughing about the other day. Not that you wanted a kiss-ass for a partner; you far preferred brutal honesty. But would a not-empty apology be too much to ask for?

Sighing, your hand drops to the desk with a small thud.

_His attitude is only due to his programming._

You eye the android with furrowed brows and pursed lips. You’re not sure how old he is; he’s still a prototype, you knew that much. A prototype that was only made to hunt the deviants that started popping up in increasing numbers less than ten months ago. Regardless of his age, whatever information Cyberlife pumped him full of, and whatever knowledge Connor had access to, there was a lot he did not seem to grasp about interpersonal relationships.

“Do you know what it means to be partners with someone on an investigation?” you inquire, wanting him to… understand- to  _learn_.

Connor does not miss a beat in answering. “Yes. It is a label referring to two or more individuals who have been assigned to work in conjunction with each other on a specific investigation. The word itself is derived-”

“No. No, I mean-” you interrupt, holding out a hand to stop him, belatedly realizing you should have been far more specific with your question. “Most partnerships have, ideally, a foundation of trust,” you explain evenly, holding his eyes. “When you’re partners with someone you  _know_ they will have your back, and they know you will have theirs. You, Hank and I are partners on this investigation. So… yes. It is…  _difficult_ for me to now work with you because that trust isn’t there anymore. And Hank… Well, he’s never been the fondest of androids and you’ve just given him plenty of reasons to maintain that view.”

“Anymore?” he questions after a moment. He tilts his head to the side as he observes you, LED a flickering blue. Noting your confusion, he clarifies, “because of what I did, you said that you no longer trust me ‘ _anymore’._  Perhaps if I knew what initially made you trust me, I could fix the current situation.”

Staring at him, your furrowed brows only deepen.

“Yeah… I don’t know how you managed that in the first place,” you reluctantly admit with a frown. “You just kind of snuck up on me.”

And he had.

You were not sure when or where, certainly not  _why_ , but at some point after meeting Connor, between his oddly human quirks and awfully human awkwardness, he just… slipped past your defenses unnoticed. It had not been a conscious decision on your part that was for sure, you simply  _assumed_ he would have your back, that you could trust him.

And now he was asking how to do it again, how to get you to trust him, when you didn’t even know how he managed it in the first place.

Shrugging off the thought, you similarly relayed the action to Connor. As long as he didn’t leave you falling off another building, you could deal with it and put everything -including this conversation- behind you.

“Regardless, I trust that you’ll complete your mission, Connor. Does the rest of it even matter to you?” It’s a rhetorical question, of course, you know it couldn’t matter to him. So, naturally, you don’t wait for an answer and simply turn back around to resume reading the files on your screen.

Connor’s eyes follow you, however, because… it did. Oddly enough, it did matter to him. In a way.

Few people respected androids, fewer still liked them. Connor, in every possible sense and interpretation, could not care about the disrespect -and frankly the occasional abuse- he received. He was not capable of it. It only bothered him to the extent that it hindered his progress on his missions.

But Connor found that working these last few days with you had been considerably less  ~~pleasurable~~  of a convenience now that  _you_ were treating him with such indifference, with some level of distrust.  ~~He didn’t like it.~~

It  _did_ matter.

Because it put a damper on the investigation.


	2. Chapter 2

Hank’s level of alcohol consumption had been on a steady decline since you’d first met and later started working together. It hadn’t taken long to form a friendship with the gruff guy that was your partner, and it had been a pleasant surprise to see his alcohol intake further drop over the last few weeks. A time frame which not so coincidentally coincided with Connor’s arrival.

But damn. The man still knew how to drink. Well, drink and be late.

Connor had sent you a message not long ago, saying that he’d found your missing partner at his house and was in the process of sobering him up. You aren’t entirely sure what that entailed, but you braced yourself for the worst as you quietly walked into Hank’s house to pick the two of them up for a case.

Sumo is there, happily meeting you at the door, but he is alone. Having expected a great deal of shouting, the announcement of your arrival dies on your lips at the distinct lack of voices filling the space. From somewhere inside you can hear a shower running -you assume that’s part of Connor’s plan of induced sobriety- but aside from that it was almost eerily quiet.

You find Connor in what you assumed was Hank’s bedroom. His back is to you, but his head is tilted slightly to the side as he stares at-

“The murder weapon was a Steyr Mannlicher Model SL, chambered in a .222 Remington,” Connor states, the words sounding too loud in the quietness of the house.

You’re confused and a fair bit worried about him, about the statement- until your eyes fall on the television he’s absorbed with. The show was some cheaply produced cop drama -you’d seen enough of its laughably bad commercials to recognize it- and the two characters on screen were discussing possible murder weapons for some victim or other.

The muffled sound of the shower across the hall and the noise from show must have masked your approach, but you make sure to remain silent as you bite back a smile, lean your shoulder into the old, off-white doorframe and observe the scene before you.

In faux-informative and yet suspense-inducing tones the two characters on screen discuss what kind of handgun was likely used as the-

“The weapon was obviously a _rifle_ ,” Connor corrects with no small amount of irritation in his voice, his attention -and something sounding awfully close to annoyance- focused entirely on the screen.

You manage to stifle your laughter but can’t help the smirk crossing your lips. “ _Obviously._ ”

Connor whips around at the sound of your voice. He looks like the typical kid caught stealing from the cookie jar, and it does nothing to lessen your amusement. Plus, being able to startle him, even accidentally, may or may not have done good things for your ego. 

“Detective Y/L/N, I didn’t hear you come in,” Connor explains, straightening his already impeccable posture.

“I gathered that much. Anything good on?” you ask with a nod to the television, not bothering to hide your smile.

Connor opens his mouth, carefully glancing between you and the screen. “I suppose that would depend on your definition of good.”

A small laugh escapes you. It isn’t an _un_ tactful thing to say, but you swear the android’s personality was developing more and more each day. Perhaps that shouldn’t have surprised you as much as it did, seeing as how Connor was programmed to learn and adapt, but the advancements have been in his character as well- in the hints of dry humor he would occasionally display, for example. His mannerisms had gradually become more human, too, less stiff. You even did a double-take the other day after catching him _slouching._ It had reached the point where there were a few pesky moments in which you had to remind yourself that he isn’t human.

Your lips part in response, some dry remark on your tongue, when the door across the hall is suddenly wrenched open.

“ _Jesus christ,”_ hank barks at the sight of you. “As if Connor wasn’t bad enough, now you’re here too? What the fuck is this, a public space?”

“Well, maybe if you hadn’t gotten so shit-faced last night you wouldn’t have two worried friends forcibly checking-in on you,” you rebuke, raising your brows in a silent challenge. A dare to contradict.

Hank merely scoffs, grumbling something under his breath as he walks an uneven path down the hallway. If his bloodshot eyes and sickly complexion hadn’t been testament enough to the amount of alcohol he had consumed, the lack of any distinguishable comeback certainly confirmed it.

 

-

 

The crime scene wasn’t far but the ride was mostly a silent one. In no time at all the three of you arrived on the scene, joining the other officers already out on the manhunt. There was not an extraordinary amount to work with but, unlike most of your other cases, there was actual surveillance footage.

On the way over, Connor had reported most of what the shopkeeper the three of you were interviewing was now reiterating: a woman -who was actually a deviant previously on file- coming in with a kid and discreetly stealing. Straying from your two partners and the relatively uninformative interview they’re conducting, you wander down the street in search of anything looked-over.

What you find is a dark blur in the corner of your eye, there and gone again in a heartbeat.

It was natural for you to investigate, to follow what you think you saw farther down the block and around a corner.

But as you stare at Kara, the deviant AX400 model you were searching for, you suddenly wish you hadn’t.

No words needed to be expressed in order for the two of you to know that the other _knew._ Knew that she had been caught, that, with the tall fence a few feet behind her preventing a quick escape from the grimy alley, she and the little girl being pushed behind her back were stuck.

There was not a LED to be seen on either of them, and the only detail that marked Kara as an android was the white hem of her uniform peeking out from beneath a very large jacket. If you hadn’t been looking for them, had not studied their faces from the security footage, had not seen Kara’s file last week -a missing android who attacked her owner-, you never would have guessed.

The little girl whispered Kara’s name but the two of you said nothing as you gaped at each other, each analyzing in complete silence. Waiting.

There was so much emotion in them, you noted. From fluttering fingers clutching wrinkled clothing and shifting feet in old, muddied shoes, to the sheer determination despite the terror flickering in Kara’s eyes.

The love.

Because there was no doubt in your mind that that’s what it is: love. There was more love, affection, empathy, and a will to survive in the two beings standing before you than you had seen in most humans.

It could’ve been laughably ironic if it weren’t so damn depressing.

The little girl stares at you with old, old eyes. Eyes older than anyone that young should have. She was frightened as well, though not nearly enough for a confrontation like this to have been her first. Though she was also on the surveillance footage, you had no idea who she really is- there was no mention of her in Kara’s file. She’s clinging to Kara as though she were her parent, however, and looking at you as though you were her nightmares manifested. A monster from under the bed who had come to devour them and their hopes and their dreams.

And… suddenly that’s exactly what you feel like. Standing there gaping right back at them, an officer of the law and their one-step-removed executioner, you feel like a monster.

“They’re searching the whole area,” you find yourself saying, surprising the three of you. “But nothing past Williams street right now. If you can make it there, your chances are better at disappearing.”

Kara is caught between suspicion and confusion -not that you blame her-. Above her narrowing eyes, sharp lines form between her dark brows as she tightens her grip on the girl behind her. “Why would you help us?” she asks warily, shifting on her feet.

_Because you’ll be deactivated if I don’t_ , is what immediately pops into your head.

Because in the last fifteen seconds you had seen more love between the two people bravely standing in front of you than there had between you and most of your family members in the last decade.

And because love was so, _so_ human.

Because while you are assigned to the deviancy investigation, while you are only a detective and decidedly _not_ a judge, you value justice and what was _right_ over your job. Over the law. And there was no way, you knew, that you could possibly turn them in with anything close to a clear conscience. Perhaps that made you a criminal-

No. No, there was no “ _if”_ about it. You would be aiding and abetting, you realize with grim apprehension.

But this is bigger than you. And with the sheer number of cases coming in on a daily basis regarding deviants, you are willing to bet that it was far, far bigger than just Kara and the girl as well. Maybe you’re wrong. Maybe you and your gut are entirely off-base, and maybe all androids really are just hunks of metal and plastic and wires. But on the off chance you _aren’t_ wrong…

If doing your job correctly went against what you stood for, what you _wanted_ to stand for, then... maybe your job wasn’t right.

There was a lot about them, their history, that you don’t know. But you’d seen Todd; you could guess. When he came in to give his statement, you had questioned the divorced, abusive junkie so coldly and with enough aggressive detachment that afterwards Connor had even complimented your “ _effectivenes_ s.”

“Because I think it’s right,” you state. The conviction in your calm, level voice was evident, and you wished you felt that certainty inside. “Keep to the busier streets if you can, you’ll be less obvious.”

Kara watches you carefully, scanning for any hints duplicity while her taut shoulders ever so slowly begin to relax- until a loud, obnoxious and jarring honk erupts from a passing car at the end of the alleyway. All three of you flinch.

“ _Go,”_ you stress, nodding towards the tall fence behind them, an urgency that extended past your own well-being coursing through your veins.

What are you even doing?

For a split second, Kara hesitates, her expression softening into one of gratitude as she utters a quick thank you. You return the smile she gives, but it’s strained and doesn’t quite reach your eyes. Not that Kara notices, she’s already hefting the girl onto her back and beginning to scramble up the grey chain-link.

You bite back the odd need to apologize, to tell her she shouldn’t have to say “ _thank you,_ ” shouldn’t have to be appreciative of someone enacting the bare minimum of moral decency, showing the basics of human morality, and turn on your heels. There wasn’t time. The longer you were out of sight of your fellow officers, the more likely someone was to notice your absence.

Slowly exhaling, you quickly pad out of the alley and turn the corner-

And walk directly into something solid.

Connor immediately reaches out an arm out to steady you from the collision, to prevent you from stumbling, but you hardly feel the pressure on your forearm. The strength and weight of his grip are only registered in some distant part of your brain, you are far too busy trying to wipe away your gaping mouth and the panic surging up in your chest.

“Are you all right, Detective?” Connor automatically asks, dropping his hand the moment you’re stable.

“Uh- yeah, I’m fine,” you lie, quickly forcing all traces of alarm off your face. “You?”

A strange look crosses Connor’s face, the slightest furrowing of the brows and something you couldn’t quite name. “I am uninjured.”

The obvious physical tells are the first ones you try to smooth over. You force the air in and out of your lungs in some stable, non-erratic rhythm, stiffen your fingers to avoid fiddling with them, lean ever so slightly into one hip for a relaxed stance- a stance that said ‘ _this case is a bust, can we go home now?_ ’ and not ‘ _I just gave the criminals we’re looking for some hot tips on how to avoid police custody._ ’

To your ever-increasing dismay, however, the fact that your elevated stress levels were due to something aside from the collision must have been apparent to Connor, for it takes less time than you thought possible for his inquisitive gaze to travel to the alley at your back.

“Have you found something?” he asks, expression returning to one that could only be described as mechanical.

Though your own expression remained the calm, at ease one you’d forced it into, your heart certainly falters at the question. It had only been a few moments, you doubted Kara and the girl had had sufficient time to reach the far end of the alley. All it would take was a few curious steps from Connor…

He had not moved away from you after the minor collision, and you hadn’t wanted to give him any additional ground so you remained bonded to the concrete as well. The two of you needn’t be standing as close as you were, however, for him to be able to detect and call you out on any bullshit you decide to spew. Though, you couldn’t possibly answer the question honestly. If you told Connor what you saw, _what you did_ , he would simply chase after them. He would catch them. Then, Kara and the girl would die.

Or, on the absurdly stupid, hardly-worth-thinking-about-but-secretly-hoping-for chance that Connor learned the truth and did _not_ chase after them, then _he_ would be deactivated and that was almost as bad. He had to upload his memories to Cyberlife every so often, you knew, it was not like he would be able to keep something like this from them for long- even if he wanted to. He’d be deconstructed, poked and prodded until it was clear why he had deviated from his mission.

“Nothing you need to see,” you answer offhandedly, settling for an outwardly assured half-truth like you weren’t stressed at all. Like Connor wouldn’t be able to tell even if you were.

In another universe, his rich dark brown eyes may have been soft and warm. In this one, they narrowed in on you analytically. You’re sure he’s scanning you -or waiting to see if you’ll break-, and the seconds slowly drag on with all the smoothness of sandpaper. When his gaze finally shifts away, back to the alley, you try not to panic.

“Connor, just trust me, alright?”

You assume he hears your calm, last-ditch effort, but his face only snaps away from side-street once your hand finds his arm, just above the elbow. It’s not a heavy grasp, you aren’t trying to physically stop him from investigating -not yet at least-, but neither is it feather-light. It really is just to draw his attention. It works.

Perhaps a little too well.

Connor stares down at you, suspicious and half surprised.

Between analyzing clues, Connor had watched you progress farther and farther from the crime scene. He said nothing of it to Hank, who appeared content to let you do your own thing. But when he noticed your head not-so-subtly jerk to one side and your feet carry you around a corner, out of sight, he thought it best follow.

There was _something_ in that alley, he knew it. Any fractional doubts he might have had were eliminated the second you reached out to him. Quite frankly, the contact took Connor aback. Seldom was he touched in a non-threatening manner. Additionally, as he was programmed to do with everyone of ~~importance~~ relevance, he had idly observed your interactions and body language since the moment he met you. He had concluded that you were, by far, among the top twenty individuals he had encountered who avoided personal contact whenever necessary.

But you told him there was nothing there. At least, _nothing he needed to see_. It was an odd phrase, and he was strangely all the more curious to investigate because of it. He wanted to understand ~~you.~~ ~~what made you say it~~. what was in the alley.

He knows he should investigate, that that was the only logical route forwards, but he also knows you are asking for his trust. Trust, which he had learned, is an odd thing.

It had taken him a while, far longer than ~~he preferred~~ was optimal for the investigation, but he had slowly and tediously worked on rebuilding the trust you placed in him before the rooftop scenario. He concluded three days ago that he was close but he had not made any substantial progress since then, he seemed to have reached an impasse with you.

Should you have noticed anything relevant to the case, Connor reasoned, you would have mentioned it. There was no logical explanation for you to delay or prevent a thorough investigation.

So, slowly, he nods his assent.

_Software instability^_

 

-

 

For a precinct that’s running on caffeine and drained employees, the coffee is truly dreadful. Everyone still drinks it though, and you’re no exception. Pouring in a rather excessive amount of sugar and cream in a futile attempt to disguise the cheap, bitter taste, you listen to the case Connor was hypothesizing by at your side. You had been discussing it with him earlier, and he’d followed you to the breakroom. There was a reason Hank said Connor was like a lost puppy half the time, after all. Well, Hank called him a poodle, you mentally supplied the lost puppy part. It was all in the eyes-

A quick bark of sardonic laughter gives both of you pause. “What’s the point in having an android assistant if you still have to make your own goddamn coffee?”

_Oh, out of all the hours in the day, why did Gavin have to choose this one moment to corner you in the breakroom?_

Groaning under your breath, you shake your head, not bothering to look up at him. “Have you considered the crazy possibility that I wanted to make my own?” you ask dryly.

“Oh come on, Y/N,” Gavin scoffs, a smirk coloring his tone. He sounds closer than he was before. “You can’t honestly tell me you’d rather work with this piece of plastic and an old drunk rather than me.”

Clutching your coffee cup with more force than strictly necessary, you finally turn around with an incredibly flat expression. “I’d rather work with a broken toaster than work with you. I’m surprised that, as a detective, you haven’t figured that out yet.”

Okay, maybe it isn’t the _most_ diplomatic of responses, but he just dissed your partners. Besides, if Gavin is _still_ salty about you turning down that one assignment with him before you were assigned the deviancy cases-

“Wow,” Gavin says, placing a hand over his chest where his heart would reside if he had one, feigning hurt and offense. “I’m surprised, as a detective, that I always manage to forget how much of a bitch you are. Maybe robocop over here is actually doing me a favor.”

The jab slides right off you with a roll of your eyes. Gavin’s opinion of _you_ , and his laughter, couldn’t mean any less to you than it already did. Before you can take a step towards the door, towards a nice, currently Gavin-free environment, however, another voice stops you.

“It seems to me that Detective Y/L/N’s disposition is less of a contributing factor to your lack of previous non-confrontational partnerships and more so due to your own uncordiality and insistence on unwanted advances.”

Too stunned to burst out in laughter, you gape up at Connor by your side. His expression is flat and unnervingly calm, it’s the one he wore before an interrogation had _truly_ begun. But you swear there was something close to… protectiveness behind his unusually hard eyes which are solely fixed on Gavin.

It’s unlikely that gracefully insulting someone was a part of Connor’s original programming so perhaps he had picked it up from the streets or from those he had questioned -or, more realistically, from you and Hank-, but you’re certainly impressed as you looked up at him with raised brows.

The was unsurprising general reluctance to work with Gavin held by fellow co-workers, especially -mostly- from the female officers. While you’re not entirely sure how Connor managed to learn of it, let alone hit that nail perfectly on its head, while also throwing shade -and… _defending_ you?- in a single sentence. But God, you discover that you enjoyed it _immensely_.

The small smirk that had snuck onto your lips immediately drops at the sight of the fist Gavin is forming.

The two of you move at the same time.

As Gavin steps towards Connor, to eliminate the excess space in order to throw a punch, you thoughtlessly slide in between them.

“Get out of my way, Y/N,” he growls, glaring down at you.

“And why would I do that?” you ask tiredly. The words sound nearly bored, but internally you are on edge.

The tension in the otherwise empty breakroom was palpable.

Gavin’s mouth twitches as though he’s attempting not to snarl but, somehow, he still manages to bear his teeth. He looks ready to physically and forcefully move you aside if necessary, and it certainly seems like he’s certainly considering it. A sliver of you dared him to do just that, too, to lay one finger on you and see just how far he got.

Smothering the urge to egg him on, however, you simply stare into his dark, narrowed eyes defiantly. Flatly.

He stared right back.

After a few highly-strung moments, the fist at his side begins to loosen. That is, until it’s being thrown over your shoulder in a gesture, his now straightened fingers shaking with anger. “Do you even realize you’re defending a _fucking_ _tin can!_?”

_And oh, but you do._

“ _Yeah._ A _fancy_ one sent directly by Cyberlife itself,” you retort informatively. “Now, I don’t know the exact costs, but I imagine any damage you cause their newest prototype would be well beyond your pay-grade.”

It’s a poor excuse to prevent abuse, but if it stops Gavin from picking a fight then it would have to do for now.

Gavin shifts his glaring eyes over your shoulder, clenching his jaw so tightly it almost looks painful. “Well, it’s nice to see you can fight your own battles-” he mocks with a loaded sneer before turning back to you. “-In a few weeks, when there’s a whole _line_ of detective androids, I hope you’re the first to be laid-off.”

Not one to give up the last word, Gavin whirls around and storms off, the glass door to the breakroom swinging shut behind him with a small thud.

“Ugh. What a _jerk,_ ” you groan, eyeing his retreating form with distaste. You roll your shoulders as if you could physically shrug off the remnants of him, but as you turn around your scowl quickly falls at Connor’s expression and the rapidly flashing blue of his indicator.

“What?” you ask, the weight of his gaze making you strangely defensive.

“You’ve continuously demonstrated empathy for androids. For machines. Why?” Connor questions, tilting his head to the side.

The comment itself might have grated on your nerves had it not worried you just the slightest bit more. His undivided attention and the way his eyes seemed to _see_ you, to pave directly through pretense, makes you swallow nervously. Normally, people didn’t look at you that intently unless they were going to kiss you, punch you, or trying to figure out the best angle to convince you of their innocence -or lack thereof-.

“Uh… I guess… because I think there might be more to you guys than machinery,” you admit cautiously, shifting your weight from one foot to the other.

“Androids are incapable of human emotions,” Connor sharply reminds. “Even in deviants, their ‘emotions’ are simply due to a virus, an _error_ in their software.”

You know this. Connor knows this. Everyone knows it. But as you stare up at him with furrowed brows you remembered the terror that existed in Rupert’s eyes, the love in Kara’s actions… the brief and infrequent flashes of humanity you’d seen in Connor.

“Does that matter?” you ask, considering him. “Does it matter _why_ they feel the way they do- why they _think_ they feel the way they do-” you correct upon seeing the protest on Connor’s parting lips. “The end result is the same.”

The pulsing blue of Connor’s LED switches to an unnerving red for an entire heartbeat.

Two,

two and a half,

before finally stabilizing on a rampantly flickering yellow. The expression he wears is nothing short of disorder, of dubiety. It’s as though his systems and each of his circuits were desperately trying to rationalize what you’ve just said, to come up with an answer, a retort.

For all the conviction he so normally exudes about deviants, his programmed ideas and views of them, perhaps he had never truly considered the question you posed. He was made to learn the root cause of deviancy after all, the similarities of its end results may never have played a part in his processing.

Connor doesn’t move. He even forgets to blink. He just… stares at you, and after a few moments you begin to worry. It’s almost like those times you’d catch him making a report to Cyberlife, when he would be so zoned out he was practically out of Earth’s atmosphere. But currently he still seemed present, just... as if all unvital energy expenditure had been rerouted to his processors or something.

“Connor?” you wearily prod, worriedly looking him over for signs of a broken circuit.

He continues to stare.

_Oh god._ Did you break him? How fucking _ironic_ would that be? Causing him to shut down in the attempt to prevent him being a punching bag.

“Connor?” you ask again, inching towards him. “You okay?”

It seems to snap him out of it. Blinking rapidly -as though all the commands to do so over the last few moments were firing at once-, Connor takes a staggering step backwards. Away from you.

You don’t expect the action to hurt but it oddly does.

“Yes,” he answers in the most strained voice you had ever heard paired with such a mechanical answer. “But I think we should return to the case now.”

“Alright,” you slowly answer, not wanting to- to… spook him?

Without another word, Connor turns around and exits the break room with all the determination of an android on a mission. He doesn’t wait for you to follow.

You’re left standing there, a cooling cup of coffee in your hand as you stare at the space he’d vacated, wondering what the hell just happened.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you guys liked it!
> 
> P.s. Anyone get that random movie/book/gun reference?


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